


Casual Walks

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones hates the cold. Jim doesn’t really seem to mind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casual Walks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thistlerose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/gifts).



“It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a pool table,” mutters McCoy, shivering.   
  
The weather has persisted in being that awful kind of fine damp fog that carries inescapable humidity with it, clinging ruthlessly to every animate surface and systematically robbing it of its warmth.   
  
Jim barks a pleased laugh, his breath escaping his lips in a puff of steam as he grins wide and toothy at McCoy, his eyes iceberg pale against the dreary day. “That's a good one. I still like 'colder than a witch's tits' better, though.”  
  
McCoy grunts noncommittally, burrowing deeper into his fluffy scarf. If he could manage it without looking a complete fool he’d probably pull his coat up over his head and refuse to come out until they’re indoors again.   
  
Preferably in front of a fireplace—a  _real_  fireplace—crackling hot and smoky.   
  
He closes his eyes, imagining hot coffee and cozy clean sheets and an equally warm if not warmer  _Jim_  pressed up against his side—  
  
“Jesusfucking _Christ_!” yelps McCoy, throwing up both arms and slapping Jim’s bone-chillingly frozen zombie hands off his face in a flailing parry, snapping his eyes open again in utter shock. “How are you not _hypothermic_?” he demands, catching Jim’s hands and curling them into his own mittened fists, frowning at Jim’s amused smile. “What are  _you_  grinning at, Mr. Corpsiscle?”  
  
“The only reason my hands feel so cold is because your normal body temperature is extra toasty warm and appealingly furnace-like,” protests Jim, stepping closer so that their breaths get caught between them, a warm bubble against the outside chill. “You’re like a personal heater. So this feels like the tundra to you. My hands aren’t  _that_  cold.”  
  
Jim ducks his head, watching as McCoy rubs Jim’s fingers and knuckles with careful, deft touches. McCoy, in turn, fixates on the condensation caught in Jim’s eyelashes and the flush of his cheeks.   
  
“Are your lips cold?” asks McCoy abruptly. Good god, that sounded  _so epically_   _stupid_.   
  
“What?” asks Jim, understandably bemused.  
  
“I  _said_ ,” repeats McCoy, with a heavy sigh, “are your goddamn too-pretty lips cold, too?”  
  
“As a matter fact,” replies Jim, his eyes bright, “I think they could do with a bit of warmth.”  
  
“Right,” huffs McCoy, frowning in concentration. Dropping Jim’s hands unceremoniously he cups his face instead and presses their mouths together, initiating a kiss that’s equal parts soft and slow and sweet. Jim’s lips  _are_  actually damn cold, chapped and dry, so McCoy licks and sucks at them meticulously before pushing inside his mouth and tonguing at the slick warmth there, drawing it into his own body until they’re sharing breaths and heartbeats and have to part with little huffing gasps. He brushes tenderly at Jim’s cheek with a fuzzy woollen thumb, and presses a light, chaste kiss to the tip of his reddened nose. “Better?”  
  
Jim’s answering smile is much-needed sun on such a grey afternoon. “Absolutely.”


End file.
